My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly frantic.  She had but then known that her child was living.  She could not have suspected me to be that child before.  She had followed me down here to speak to me but once in all her life.  We never could associate, never could communicate, never probably from that time forth could interchange another word on earth.  She put into my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and said when I had read it and destroyed it—­but not so much for her sake, since she asked nothing, as for her husband’s and my own—­I must evermore consider her as dead.  If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in which I saw her, with a mother’s love, she asked me to do that, for then I might think of her with a greater pity, imagining what she suffered.  She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help.  Whether she preserved her secret until death or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she had taken, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection could come near her, and no human creature could render her any aid.

“But is the secret safe so far?” I asked.  “Is it safe now, dearest mother?”

“No,” replied my mother.  “It has been very near discovery.  It was saved by an accident.  It may be lost by another accident—­to-morrow, any day.”

“Do you dread a particular person?”

“Hush!  Do not tremble and cry so much for me.  I am not worthy of these tears,” said my mother, kissing my hands.  “I dread one person very much.”

“An enemy?”

“Not a friend.  One who is too passionless to be either.  He is Sir Leicester Dedlock’s lawyer, mechanically faithful without attachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputation of being master of the mysteries of great houses.”

“Has he any suspicions?”

“Many.”

“Not of you?” I said alarmed.

“Yes!  He is always vigilant and always near me.  I may keep him at a standstill, but I can never shake him off.”

“Has he so little pity or compunction?”

“He has none, and no anger.  He is indifferent to everything but his calling.  His calling is the acquisition of secrets and the holding possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer or opponent in it.”

“Could you trust in him?”

“I shall never try.  The dark road I have trodden for so many years will end where it will.  I follow it alone to the end, whatever the end be.  It may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts, nothing turns me.”

“Dear mother, are you so resolved?”

“I am resolved.  I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride with pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have outlived many vanities with many more.  I will outlive this danger, and outdie it, if I can.  It has closed around me almost as awfully as if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, but my course through it is the same.  I have but one; I can have but one.”